


right here, right now (is all we got)

by ilgaksu



Series: not just good business [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Agender Character, Agender Kuroo, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Gay Cats, Iwachan's Embarrassing Bodyguard Crush, Jewish Character, M/M, Multi, Nobody's Over The War, Non-Binary Suga, Other, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, Selective Mute Daichi, Southern Bokuto, Suffering, The Haibas Are Literally The Mafia, Trans Bokuto, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Weaponised Mob Wife Kenma, World War I, agender akaashi, non-binary kenma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/pseuds/ilgaksu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since Kenma bought that pearly-pink powder and tried it on to go meet Kuroo after his shift, been years since Kuroo wiped his hands on his overalls and looked up and said <em>don't you touch them like that.</em> It's been years since he opened the door to the mob. They are the mob now. They're the ones knocking down the doors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	right here, right now (is all we got)

Here’s the story: there’s a tenement dollhouse-small in the gutters of the Jewish Quarter, and it’s got paper-thin walls and brawling threatening to break through. There’s a kid hiding under the table with dirty hair and dropped-coin eyes glinting out from the shadows. There’s a kid hiding under the table, nails bitten down twisted and sore. There’s a kid hiding under the table because the world is too fucking loud, the heartbeat of the Quarter strangling them triple-time with its desperation. They’re waiting and waiting for their time to come, or their friend to get home; the first one never happens, the second one always does.

 

Here’s the story: there’s an apartment with soft fur and soft carpets that block out the noise, and when you look out of the window you can see green so bright it’s unhealthy somehow, leaking in from the trees outside. There’s someone sat eating cherries on the sofa, the sugar-neon syrup of them slicking their wrist until they lap it up, tongue sandpaper rough. There’s someone sat eating cherries and their eyes aren’t ever looking away from the music box playing on their lap.

 

“I want his head,” the someone says. The days of hiding under tables are over. The days of hiding under tables are gone. They look to the window seat and wait to see that sickle-caramel smile, the punctuation of a shrug. Their time has come and their friend has come home. Who says you can’t have it all?

 

“Anything for you, kitten,” and the music box chimes. Another cherry. A smile.

 

Here’s the story, babe. Join up the dots, will you?

 

*

 

 _May the All-Merciful Father Who dwells in the supernal heights, in His profound compassion, remember with mercy the_ \- no, no, no - Kuroo Tetsurou, reporting for duty, sir, my name is - _Johnnie get your gun, get your gun, get your gun, take it on the run, on the run, on the run_ \- run all the way back to Quarter, alright, Kuroo, just fucking go, just fucking get gone - _don’t you touch them like_ \- that’s how you gotta do it, Kuroo, you gotta cut it clean else you’re gonna have blood all over the fuckin’ shop and this ain’t a butcher’s this is a respectable - _give me that, you’ve never had a head for numbers_ \- don’t be getting another sweetheart on me, kitten - come back and I won’t - come back and I - come back -

 

Kuroo throws himself out of bed and scrambles for the balcony door. The sheets tangle around his legs and he rips them and hears them tear and falls into the door and keeps going. It opens like Hell is yawning wide and Kuroo trips out to breathe, and breathe, and breathe -

 

“You woke me up,” he hears, and turns, half-surprised. He’d forgotten Kenma had stayed with him tonight.

 

“Sorry, kitten,” he replies, tries for the fifth time in a row to work his lighter. The shakes make it hard, and he grits his teeth before a small hand grabs his. Kenma’s wearing polish that is soft and coral, and when they’re this close Kuroo can smell the milk soap and sleep on them.

 

“Give me that,” Kenma says and Kuroo lets go. Kuroo always let go, and leans over so Kenma can light his cigarette. Kenma works the lighter and Kuroo burns.

 

“Do you need me to tell you what year it is again?” Kenma asks, standing in his sightline and very still. Kuroo shakes his head. He knows it’s 1925. He knows he’s not in France. He can see the nape of Kenma’s neck beneath the curl of peroxide blonde. Snipers are taught it’s the place for a clean kill, _a sweet spot easier to find than your wife’s_ , and Kuroo reaches out and waits.

 

“Can I?”

 

Kenma nods, so he curls his hand over the back of Kenma’s neck and breathes in smoke, and feels something loosen.  

 

*

 

Twelve years ago, Kenma was waiting outside the factory for Kuroo’s shift to get done when one of the night staff was coming on duty and took a fancy to big honey eyes and the slick of cheap pearly-pink powder on Kenma’s cheeks. Kuroo walked out, wiping his hands on his overalls, to see Kenma caged in and a hand on Kenma’s jaw, _look at me when I’m talking to you_ and Kuroo -

 

Kuroo saw red, moved without thinking, remembers his own voice sounding wrecked as he said _don’t you touch them like that_ and seeing Kenma’s eyes blown wide with surprise.

 

Kuroo lost his job. The next day, he opened the door to the mob.  

 

“We’ve heard your name,” they said, and Kuroo looked back to where Kenma was sat, playing cat’s cradle with some old thread. Looked until Kenma met his eyes. Until Kenma nodded.

 

Then he turned and let them inside.

 

Ten years ago, they were living in a shitty apartment by the docks, thrown out of the last boarding house in case queer was catching. Some navyman followed Kenma home and Kuroo walked out onto the landing to find Kenma spitting in the bastard’s eyes, Kenma’s claw marks across his chin.

 

Kuroo saw white, moved without thinking, remembers his own voice sounding hoarse as he said  _you picked the wrong stray to follow home_ , babe and seeing Kenma’s eyes blown wide with pride.

 

The navyman fell down the stairs. They were slippery and narrow. The autopsy said he’d been thrown down three times but _who the fuck knows, man_ , and the mob takes care of their own. _You can’t count for shit_ , Kenma said, and Kuroo kissed the top of their head. _Just takin’ out the trash, babydoll._ Kenma rolled their eyes and Kuroo washed the blood down the sink.  

 

Eight years ago, the European draft came through and Kuroo’s name got picked out the hat to report for duty, just shy of nineteen to Kenma’s seventeen. Kuroo had made friends through business with the Italians, extracted a promise to keep an eye on Kenma that came easier than the pulling teeth Kuroo expected: Kozume was proving a valuable investment, the brain to Kuroo’s fists. Kuroo got cleared for active duty and he dropped his marching orders on the kitchen table and Kenma looked at them once and wouldn’t look at them again.

 

“I can always get blue-carded,” Kuroo offered. “There’s that photograph of me in the red dress, that oughta do it,” and Kenma shook their head _no_ , and Kuroo didn’t bring it up again.

 

It was five in the morning the morning of, and Kuroo’s uniform hanging on the back of the door. When Kuroo turned to look at it, Kenma pulled him back down, talked against his mouth and said _don’t_ , said _you dare_ , said _not yet_ ; bit his lip and scratched his back raw because Kenma grew up digging their heels into the dirt and making this one thing theirs.

 

Kuroo saw stars, moved without thinking, remembers his own voice sounding ruined as he said _don’t you be getting another sweetheart on me, kitten_ and seeing Kenma’s eyes blown wide with knowing. Kenma twisted their head to the side to hide the flush, the rising tide of it, and said:

 

_Alright, then. Come back and I won’t._

*

 

They can’t tell what the bastard’s saying properly through a mouthful of blood and teeth, but Yaku catches _you and your fucking nancy_ aimed at Kuroo’s back. And honestly? Yaku sighs. It’s getting cold out, and at the mouth of the alleyway, Kuroo’s just gone and stopped. That can only mean one thing.

 

When he turns around, his eyes have changed. Yaku knows those eyes. He’s spent long enough running the Quarter with Nekoma to know. He exchanges a look with Taketora before they both slip into role, flanking Kuroo like they’re Cerberus separated. Yaku isn’t sure whether he’s grateful Lev’s back at the suite, probably cutting them all fresh wisteria stems for their buttonholes or calling his mama back in New York.  Lev likes bringing them back to Kenma strung up, like a cat with dead birds. Kuroo likes to bring them back in pieces, if he brings them back at all.

 

“You ever gone steady with a girl, Yaku?” Kuroo asks. His voice is deceptively calm.

 

“No, sir,” Yaku says.

 

“What about you, Taketora?”

 

Taketora licks his lips. When Kuroo holds his hands out for the baseball bat, Yaku presses it into his grip and watches his fingers, pale and bony, flex around the handle.

 

“Once or twice, sir.”

 

“You see,” Kuroo tells them. “You see, it’s a beautiful thing, Yaku. When you do, there’s gonna be one day when you look at ‘em, and you go: I wanna give that kid the whole fucking world.”

 

“I get that, sir.”

 

“But you can’t do it, you just can’t do it, and it’s sad.”

 

“That’s plenty sad, Kuroo.”

 

“A fucking tragedy,” Taketora adds. Kuroo nods once, sharp, without looking away from his prey, who’s slowly realising his mistake and pushing himself up from the dirt on his hands. Kuroo places one polished shoe in the middle of the guy’s chest and presses him back down, almost gently if it wasn’t so firm, until his head cracks against the ground.

 

“Damn straight. And that’s what this cat here doesn’t get. ‘Cause when it happened to me, I looked at them and I said: I can’t get you the whole world, kitten, but I’ll get you this whole fucking city.”

 

Kuroo crouches down so he’s a breath away from the guy on the floor, rests one hand on the baseball bat like it’s a cane and uses the other to wrap around the guy’s throat and squeeze once, lightly, as a warning.

 

“I may be queer,” Kuroo says, voice dropped to a low murmur, “I ain’t denyin’ it, we’ve all got fuckin’ eyes. And you nearly got away tonight too with yours in your head, nearly went for the fuckin’ home run, only you had to go and say something like that about my Kenma, huh.”

 

Kuroo glances behind them at Yaku and Taketora, must see the exasperation in Yaku’s face because he lets go of the guy’s throat and rises to his feet. The guy struggles against the twine, but Yaku knows his job and knows it good. He isn’t getting free of those bindings any time soon.

 

“Sorry, boys,” he says. “Gotta stop playing with my food. Bad habit.” Taketora grunts. It could be a laugh. Yaku isn’t sure. It’s getting colder. Kuroo holds out his hand and Yaku hands him the Jack of Diamonds. Kuroo takes the playing card and crouches down again, slides it into the man’s breast pocket.

 

“A true artist always signs his work, right, Yaku?” Kuroo says, and Yaku rolls his eyes because Kuroo Tetsurou is a corny piece of shit if he ever met one. Kuroo’s smile widens.

 

“Somewhere to be, Yaku?” he asks.

 

Yaku knows Kuroo, knows how he shows all his teeth when he laughs and remembers everyone’s birthdays and is capable of touching Kenma with infinite tenderness, just as he is incapable of not buying Kenma everything they didn’t have growing up and then some. He’s even saved up a few smiles for Karasuno’s shrimp, on his day trips to Kenma’s apartment to listen to the gramophone, Kageyama Tobio hovering behind like an anxious roiling shadow. And when Bokuto comes by, Kuroo uses it as an excuse for a party and drains the liquor cellar dry.

 

He can’t see any of that right now. Kuroo’s eyes are black holes.

 

Yaku turns his head away first.

 

“Just get on with it,” he mutters. Lev better have reversed the charges on that fucking phone call.

 

Kuroo laughs, shrugs, tests the weight of the bat in his grip.  

 

And when he does get on with it, he goes to town.

 

*

 

The next morning, Kenma goes with him to inspect the distillery; a pearl-grey notebook tucked into their hand and a pearl-handled pistol tucked into their garter belt. Kuroo had watched them slip it into place this morning from the window seat with big black eyes and a half-smile that made Kenma swallow hard and scramble for their coat. They’re good at playing this game now, Kenma’s hand curled small on Kuroo’s arm, weaponising frailty and making lace into chainmail. They walk in and everyone halts, even halfway through lifting crates. It’s going dark and soon Fukurodani will turn up to finish the job, getting Body’s Blood circulating through the veins of the city, souring the blood of every sorry fucker out there so they could dance through the night blissfully, sweetly shitfaced.  

 

Kenma taps through the sawdust on patent button-ups, allows Taketora to help them up onto a bench to inspect the liquid dripping slow through the glass tubing until it swirls into demijohns bigger than Kenma like dust motes settling.

 

“I’ve been looking at the formula,” Kenma says quietly. Kuroo hums in enquiry, hand on the small of their back, both of them staring at what began as bathtub gin in the Quarter’s gutters and now affords them no small foothold in this city. Kuroo’s the frontman, pressing palms and greasing their way up, Kuroo’s the head of Nekoma in name, but Kenma’s running this show and anyone with half a brain knows it.

 

“I think,” Kenma says, then corrects themselves, voice firmer, “I _know_ I can make it better.”  

 

Kuroo looks at them. Kenma smiles.

 

*

 

Kuroo waits for Bokuto to arrive because honestly, why wouldn’t he? Kenma’s fussing with a music box in their lap, turning the handle over and over. They’ve all heard that waltz at least thirty times over by now.

 

“Kitten,” Kuroo says, massaging his temples, “Could you keep that down for -”

 

“KUROO TETSUROU, AS I LIVE AND BREATHE,” Bokuto shouts from the doorway, and Kenma just throws Kuroo an eloquent look that Kuroo just as eloquently ignores. Bokuto bounds over, violet-pink eyes lighting up behind customary smoked-glass spectacles, the shock of white hair and the papery tint of his skin giving him a terrifyingly ageless quality. There’s already rumours that Bokuto Koutarou is immortal, that he’s sold his soul to the devil, that he got run out of Ohio for it; technically, all of them are almost true, Kuroo knows. (It was Georgia, not Ohio; Kuroo’s always wondered why Bokuto picked Ohio of all places). Bokuto Koutarou is a tough son of a gun and letting his friend mythologise himself out of the ashes is the least Kuroo owes him. Kuroo still remembers waking up in the tin-roofed shelter of an army hospital slurring around the dirt in his mouth and the bowel-sick terror of _I can’t die here, I have to get back to Kenma_ , to see an albino nurse half-turned away and tapping a syringe of morphine for his broken ribs.

 

_You an angel, Nurse?_

_Keep sweet-talkin’ like that and I’ll tell your wife._

 

 _Nah, Nurse._ And he’d smiled slow. _Kenma ain’t my_ wife.

 

Six years and an operation in the Swiss Alps later, Bokuto tells people the scars on his chest are from getting knifed in the midst of a Southern gang’s coup; as the newest star of Chicago’s demi-monde, Bokuto may drawl with Georgia’s lemonade-sugar elocution but knows from the bitchery of hot afternoons on the porch how half-truths ring better to the ear than anything else.

 

“You ugly son of a bitch,” Kuroo says, laughing when Bokuto pounds his back in greeting.

 

“How’s the wife?” Bokuto asks, before spotting Kenma, his eyes lighting up with delight. Kenma squirms. “Kenma! You on a touch day or?” When Kenma shakes their head _no_ , Bokuto shrugs and blows them a kiss over Kuroo’s shoulder, winking exaggeratedly. “You know, if you ever get tired of this rat bastard here...” Kenma sighs, and it’s when Kuroo hears another, equally weary noise, that he looks up to see Akaashi picking through the sawdust in brightly polished tan-and-white brogues. The pleats of their moss-green skirt swing around their knees, and they’re wearing Bokuto’s wool coat hung from their shoulders.

 

“I don’t know why I’m here myself,” Akaashi says, “So please don’t ask. Good evening, Kenma.”

 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whines.

 

“Furthermore,” Akaashi says, pointing at Kuroo, “Next time you consider ringing me to check ‘how charred a corpse has to be for deniability’, consider again. Being on the books is supposed to afford me -”

 

“Plausible deniability,” Bokuto and Kuroo both chorus in unison. Akaash’s jaw twitches. Yaku coughs out what might be a laugh, and Kenma watches them all with a carefully neutral expression. Akaashi’s face screams _I’m questioning how my life ended up this way_ with a side order of _I should’ve known dropping out of Yale was a bad idea_.

 

“Kuroo,” Kenma says, standing up and steadying themselves against the wall, and Kuroo nods.

 

“Everything’s in the usual place,” Kuroo says. “Keep it down, will you?”

 

“Night owls,” Bokuto promises, “Night owls, I swear,” before turning to Fukurodani’s lifters behind him. He puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles in a mimicry of said owl, when will that joke _die_ , and waits for the boys in the vans to respond, a flurry of screeches crying out into the night and then silence. Every time Kuroo hears it, it still makes his skin prickle, uneasy with how easily Bokuto slotted into Chicago’s silhouetted skyline.

 

“Come on, boys,” Bokuto grins, eerie as the Joker he picked out for his calling card, his teeth a slice in the night, “The night’s still young.”

 

*

 

So here’s the deal. It’s one in the morning and the city may not be one for sleeping this early but Kuroo’s trying to take Kenma to bed anyway; feeling Kenma’s hand curl and bite in hard at his hip, Kenma’s voice going raw, Kenma’s pulse rabbit-soft under his mouth. Kuroo’s managed to fight them out of the fussy bow-necked shirt that makes Kenma looks like a spoilt prize cat. Kenma’s breath is coming out wounded but their eyes are going brilliantine and Kuroo can’t, he can’t -

 

The door bangs open and Kuroo sighs. Kenma rolls their eyes as Kuroo rolls off Kenma. Taketora tries very hard to not look and fails very hard; Kuroo props himself up against the headboard.

 

“Go on then,” Kuroo snaps, looking at a Taketora who is trying, still very hard, not to look too closely back. “This better be good. Someone better have fucking died.”

 

Kenma curls into Kuroo’s bare chest and nudges his hand with their head until Kuroo takes the hint and starts to stroke their hair. Spoilt cat, huh. Taketora visibly hesitates again.

 

“I can come back later,” he offers.

 

“Well, clearly you couldn’t before,” Kuroo says. “Go on, let’s hear it. Might as well take the mood down to fuckin’ zero.”    

 

“Shiratorizawa just claimed credit for the brick warehouse explosion,” Taketora says. “They found a white rose in the rubble.”

 

Kenma tenses imperceptibly. Kuroo’s hand tightens in their hair. The brick warehouse explosion was in Aoba Josai’s territory. The brick warehouse explosion killed thirty of Oikawa’s boys. Oikawa’s been threatening to drink someone’s blood for weeks; Kuroo thinks that one’s got more to do with the Dracula talkie playing at the picturehouses, but doesn’t doubt the intensity of the sentiment. Oikawa’s a fucking monster like that; takes one to know one, and Kuroo’s not forgotten the time Oikawa cut someone’s face open for laughing at Iwaizumi during a poker round. Yeah, that one’s stayed for a while.

 

“Great,” Kuroo mutters; next to him, Kenma hums. “Guessing the night’s about to go entirely to shit then.”

 

“Oikawa’s called an emergency meeting. Half an hour. The usual place.” Taketora pauses.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Kuroo says.

 

“Sorry about that, sir.”

 

Kenma sighs again and leans over the bed for their shirt. Kuroo gets there first and hands it them.

 

“Give us five,” Kenma says softly, “We’ll be right out.” When they look up their eyes flash; Taketora takes the hint and flees.

 

*

 

The meeting is about as fucking miserable as Kuroo expected. Daichi nods as they walk in, huge in his greatcoat; sat next to him, Sugawara yawns into the cup of their hand, sleepy-eyed, doe-eyed.

Suga looks soft but Kuroo remembers seeing Suga visit Daichi in the military hospital, ramrod spine and red-wet eyes. Daichi couldn’t talk yet, but Kuroo had watched Suga sit haltingly on the chair from the next bed; strange and trembling and beautiful, the life thrumming through them in a way that shivered and belied the steel underneath. They had put their hand on the very edge of the pillowcase, as though to touch Daichi but afraid; Daichi had turned into it anyway. Suga had taken in a breath.

 

 _Koushi_ , Daichi had mouthed, and smiled but it was cracked. Kuroo had turned away quick before he had to see either of them cry, closed his eyes and pretended to be dead to the world.

 

‘Cause, here’s some backstory now for you: Suga drove ambulances through the shitshow that was 1918, and when Kuroo got his orders he got Daichi for a commanding officer with them. They didn’t know each other, really, what with Daichi living with his Italian grandmother and Hispanic mother, far into the reaches of the Catechism with the rest of his kind. Kuroo knew Daichi was Karasuno’s next heir apparent, Ukai and Takeda loosening their grip on the reins so Daichi could take up the slack. He seemed reliable enough, though too serious about the whole thing: they met properly when Daichi brought one of Kuroo’s letters back. Commanding officers were in charge of censoring the letters back home of those in their charge.

 

“You’re very anatomical,” was the first thing Daichi ever said to Kuroo, handing the letter over.

 

“Gotta keep warm somehow,” Kuroo had replied. It was the first time Kuroo had ever seen Daichi laugh. It was as they stood there, laughing, that the world caved in.

 

When they woke up in the military hospital, they were told these things: that there had been a landslide along their section of trench. That they had been trapped under the weight of the earth, buried alive, for ten hours, until the bite of shovels cut out maw enough to pull them out. That they, wheezing around broken ribs and limbs, were the only survivors.

 

And you’re hearing this because there’s a bond you get when you’re the only two alive at the end of the day. You’re hearing this because Daichi hides the bouts of mutism that still choke him up, the fear of giving orders to make men die tasting like grave-dirt in his mouth. You’re hearing this because Kuroo woke them both up every night for the first fortnight gasping _Ican’tbreatheIcan’tbreatheIcan’t_.  You’re hearing this because Daichi’s gonna be the first Catholic in his family to be cremated; he’s too scared of being buried twice, he says.

 

You’re hearing this because when you’ve both seen each other’s Achilles heels, when you’ve both been cut open in matching beds, you’ve gotta have each other’s backs. It’s just good business.

 

It’s not just good business.

 

“Morning,” Daichi says, voice low and rusty. Kuroo snorts and takes the seat next to him. Over the other side of the table, Bokuto lounges and ostentatiously winks. Daichi taps his fingers on the table. Kuroo listens. _They want blood._ Taps back. _What’s new._ Bokuto tries to put his arm around the back of Akaashi’s chair, but at a glance from Akaashi, who’s sharpening pencils with a switchblade, turns it into a stretch. Akaashi hands off the pencils and the switchblade, presumably to distract Bokuto into behaving. It works, in that Bokuto starts attacking the wood with relish. By the time the door opens and Oikawa walks in, there’s a little pile of wood shavings making curlicues on Oikawa’s fancy polished marble.

 

Oikawa Tooru is a fancy bastard if anyone ever deserved the name, although he’s upsettingly legitimate; the firstborn and only of the current head of the Italian mob.

 

“Oh, you didn’t bring Tobio, Daichi?” Oikawa croons, sweeping forward in a flourish of suit and pomade.  “You do know how I like to see him standing by the door out, where he belongs.”

 

Behind him, Iwaizumi closes his eyes for a moment, as though appealing to a higher power. Kuroo knows Iwaizumi still goes to Mass each Sunday, Kenma’s told him and Kenma always knows; Oikawa goes because Iwaizumi goes, watches Iwaizumi light candles at the altar and stares down the priest with the smug defiance of the devil incarnate.

 

“Kageyama’s asleep,” Daichi says shortly.

 

Bokuto raises his eyebrows, folding his arms. Akaashi picks up their pen. Blots it. Kuroo taps against the marble. _It begins._ When he looks up, Iwaizumi is looking directly at him. Kuroo looks away first. Daichi, meanwhile, is staring Oikawa down with the implacable silence of a mountain.

 

“Yes, well,” Oikawa says, lip curling, “He was always a little too good like that.”

 

“He’s a good man,” Daichi says. By his side, Suga is watching carefully, shadows moving fast behind doll eyes.

 

“He’s a good marksman,” Oikawa corrects; Daichi clenches his jaw. “Anyway, at least you brought Mr. Refreshing over there for some entertainment.” Beneath the table, Daichi’s fist clenches; Kuroo shoots him a look that says easy there. The tension ratchets.

 

And Suga smiles, leans forward, blinking big and sweet, and goes, “I’m sorry, we’re just tired, Oikawa. The strain of recent events seems to be getting to us all a little. I imagine it’s been difficult.” Under the table, Kuroo watches Suga’s fingers circle Daichi’s wrist, brush against the pulse point in soothing or warning, and then withdraw. Iwaizumi gets the closest to looking openly impressed Kuroo’s ever seen, even as he registers the blow; Oikawa sizes up Suga for a moment and it’s a bit like watching a cobra decide whether to eat the mouse or make it dance, and the mouse deciding not to give the cobra the pleasure of screaming.

 

“Shall we begin,” Akaashi interrupts smoothly, inking the date in neat cursive. It breaks the trance, breaks Oikawa and Suga’s death-stare and they all settle again as Iwaizumi pulls out a seat and Oikawa drops into it. Akaashi’s scans the table and starts to write, smooth and in the shorthand they’d created out of sheer boredom one term at Yale. Bokuto watches Akaashi’s hands move and doesn’t even pretend to hide it, digging one fingertip into the pile of pencil shavings and smearing them around the table. Kuroo sees it and tries not to smile. Bokuto’s only had a seat at the table for the past two years, ever since Oikawa acknowledged Fukurodani were getting too much to handle, too much to ignore.

 

When Oikawa settles his gaze, it’s locked onto Kuroo. That’s never a good sign, so Kuroo cuts him to the chase, cuts it quick and clean like a bone.

 

“What do you want from us?”

 

“What do I want?” Oikawa says, sweet like the first lick of Body’s Blood before the burn slicks ginger-gold down your throat. “I want what’s best for all of us.” His eyes go cold, and Kuroo knows it before he says it. “I want Ushijima’s head on a silver platter. I want his fucking heart in my hand, and I want it still beating.”

 

“What do we get out of it?” Bokuto asks, and everyone turns. He shrugs, drawing figures of eight through the pencil shavings. He’s smiling, but it’s the smile that comes before he splinters kneecaps. “I mean, you’re used to getting what you want, Oikawa. No offence. Comes with the Great King territory, I get it. I’m wondering about what I want here.”

 

“Those were our boys,” Oikawa snarls, leaning forward, hand flat on the table.

 

“Nope,” Bokuto replies, popping the ‘p’, “Those were your boys. Not mine.”

 

“Koutarou,” Akaashi says softly, but Bokuto carries on.

 

“So I want to know what I get out of this, apart from kicking Shira into the shitter. Not gonna lie, there’s...some kind of poetry in that, but I don’t read for fun these days. If I’m putting mine on the front line, I want yours out there, too.”

 

“Honestly,” Oikawa says, and Kuroo’s already calling bullshit. Oikawa Tooru never does anything honestly. Sometimes, he looks at Iwaizumi, trailing after Oikawa with those great puppy eyes he doesn’t even catch himself doing, and almost feels sorry for the bastard, dragging his whole life around for a consummate liesmith. Oikawa Tooru’s bodyguard has been ready to die for his princeling of choice for years; Kuroo similarly almost pities the unlucky bastard who fires the bullet with Iwaizumi Hajime’s name on it, because that’s gonna be one ugly revenge corpse.

 

“Honestly, I think we could all do with listening to Nekoma’s take on this,” Oikawa says. Next to Kuroo, Kenma looks quickly down at the table to avoid the turned eyes, and then looks up again just as quickly, hating and defiant and doing it anyway. Fuck, Kuroo is gonna love this kid till the day he dies. He’s gonna be nothing but ashes and he’s still gonna be gone for Kozume Kenma.

 

“You’re trying to sway our vote,” Kenma says. Kenma doesn’t usually speak up in meetings, but this time their voice is clear as a bell calling sinners to church and twice as damning. “Without us, there’s no Body’s Blood. Without us, the city dies. Without us, you don’t get your cut of the profits and you can’t fund this war.”

 

Kenma’s right. If Nekoma goes over in favour of the turf war, Bokuto and Fukurodani will follow, half out of loyalty, half out of the simple fact smuggling requires something to smuggle. If Nekoma and Fukurodani go, Karasuno relies on them both to stock the speakeasy and Oikawa probably knows about Daichi and Kuroo’s death-close solidarity, anyway. Nekoma, for the first time ever, are the tipping point. The Jack of Diamonds is the first fucking domino. Kuroo used to want this, this sort of power. He still does. Just not at Oikawa Tooru’s charity. _Be careful what you wish for._

 

"You know," Oikawa says delicately, examining his fingernails and slanting his eyes at Kuroo, "Apartments these days, you can't trust the locks on them. Nasty business, don't you think?" His eyes go from soft to razor so fast it's difficult to register a transition. "Kenma and you still have the separate apartments, don't you?"

 

Suga's better at hiding it, but Daichi takes in a breath; Kuroo doesn't look away from Oikawa once, who watches him, unblinking as that cobra. He feels Bokuto shift in his seat, suddenly sitting fully to attention. He wonders how many silenced pistols are being slipped out of pockets right about now. He would with his if there was any point; keeps his thumb on the safety in any case. Maybe Daichi should have brought Kageyama.

 

He doesn't say _you bastard_. He doesn't say _you wouldn't dare_. He knows better. He knows Aoba Josai. He cut his teeth on their ranks. And he knows Oikawa, twenty three and full of it. He missed the draft like Kenma missed the draft and it shows in the highborn arrogance that seems easy as breathing for him. Mob brat.

 

Kuroo can feel Kenma's eyes burning on his skin, can hear the snap in their intake of breath that says _don't you go falling for this_ but Kuroo already lost that when he watched that navyman fall for Kenma like Kuroo himself had done. And now one of them was dead. All's fair in love and war. All's fair.

 

Oikawa smirks at him.

 

“What’s it gonna be, Tetsurou?”

 

Next to him, Kenma puts their hand on Kuroo’s forearm. It’s a warning. It’s a warning. It’s a -

 

“Count us in,” Kuroo says through gritted teeth, and feels Kenma’s grip tighten for a moment before letting go. Kuroo can’t look at them.

 

“Was that really necessary,” he hears Iwaizumi say, tone disapproving, as they leave. Or rather, as Kenma leaves and Kuroo follows.  Kuroo watches them from the corner of his eyes; Iwaizumi with his arms folded, mouth downturned and severe. Oikawa, with his magnetic unsatisfied eyes and slick-silk shirts and pretty, sulky lips.

 

Kuroo just watches. Oikawa just smiles.

 

*

 

Seven years ago, Kuroo stepped off a boat in crisp daylight, strange and alien in uniform. Kenma was waiting for him, swaddled up against the frost and eyes dissecting the careful, hesitant way Kuroo moved now.

 

“Missed you, dollface,” was the first thing Kuroo said, “Can I-?”

 

Kenma felt the way Kuroo’s chest contracted as he breathed them in, face in their hair.

 

“The lipstick suits you.”

 

Kenma scrunched up their nose and Kuroo laughed but the laugh was tired.

 

“I’m feeling fine,” he lied, and turned his head away from the docks. “I’m feeling ready to get hell going.”

 

Kenma just rolled their eyes, but brushed their hands together all the same.

 

“Okay,” Kenma said, soft enough to be misheard, eyes of steel, “Okay.”

 

Seven years ago, Kuroo walked out of one war into another, but that’s nothing new, is it?

 

*

 

Kuroo is sat on the window seat in his apartment, trying to light cigarette number five and blowing the smoke into the glass; he hears the key in the lock and tenses.

 

“It’s just me,” Bokuto calls, and Kuroo relaxes again; he isn’t sure whether he wanted it to be Kenma or not, and it’s as Bokuto moves through the unlit dark of the apartment with the ease of familiarity that he realises how much he didn’t. Kenma is a mirror even when they don’t mean to be, and Kuroo doesn’t want to look too hard back at his own motivations right now. Kuroo knows they’re ugly motivations, bound up with how it has to be better and other and more than this, starting with _I don’t want to die in the Quarter_ and ending with _I don’t want_ us _to die in the Quarter_. And somewhere in the middle is how easy thinking of Kenma makes it to break bones, how easy thinking of France makes it to watch things burn, and how they try not to touch when Kuroo has blood on his hands.

 

He hears the clink of Bokuto unscrewing Body’s Blood, feels the shadow of a swallow before Bokuto climbs onto the window seat and Kuroo shifts his legs to make room. Kuroo goes back to trying to light that cigarette. His hands keep shaking and clicking the lighter back off. Where Kenma would help, Bokuto doesn’t: he doesn’t help until Kuroo asks and they’re both predictable as fuck.

 

“Kenma carries your other lighter around in their pocket,” Bokuto says. “If that one’s not working.”

 

That’s not why Bokuto is telling him this.

 

“It’s working just fine, Koutarou,” Kuroo snaps; the lighter finally flicks to life. Bokuto shrugs.

 

The silence is loud but Kuroo lets it be and Bokuto breathes them both through it. The cigarette’s almost down to the stub before Bokuto talks.

 

“So,” he says, voice unusually serious, pulling his knees up and resting his chin on them. “What are we gonna do then?”  

 

Now it’s Kuroo’s turn to shrug.

 

“Remember how you used to give me morphine when I ran my mouth off?”

 

Bokuto raises his eyebrows, looking at him hard. Kuroo turns to look back out of the window.

 

“Remember how I offered to give it you again?”

 

“You didn’t,” Kuroo says. “You told me if I wanted to try and get any off you I had to let you break my ribs again first.”

 

“Offer’s still open,” Bokuto replies, “Offer’s always open,” and steals the last of the cigarette out from between Kuroo’s fingers.  

 

“You don’t have to go along with this,” Kuroo says and means _you don’t have to go along with me_. He knows Bokuto resents the feeling of being played by Aoba Josai as much as the rest of them; feels it even keener, perhaps. Oikawa hadn’t had the grace to hide that Fukurodani, in his eyes, is an extension of Nekoma. Kuroo may have been the one who broke his ribs, but Bokuto was the one who set them into place.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bokuto drawls, stubs the cigarette out against their glove. The ash hisses against the leather. “Actually, I was thinking of sitting this one out.” Kuroo’s heart stops. “Watching you all turn up in the river sounds fun.”

 

Kuroo nearly looks at Bokuto; stops himself.

 

“I was thinking of a grey tie for the funeral,” Bokuto muses, tapping his nails against the glass. “But I wasn’t sure if it’d go with my eyes.” Kuroo bursts out laughing without thinking. The sound is half on the edge of tears, but it’s close enough. Bokuto nudges him with his shoulder.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better?”

 

“What?” Bokuto says, all the wide-eyed innocence of a stammering Southern belle, “Isn’t it working? I’m curious here, are you gonna want a Jewish ceremony, or -”

 

“You morbid son of a bitch,” Kuroo says, without heat. “And no. Pretty sure I’ll spontaneously set on fire the minute you put me anywhere near a holy man, dead or alive.”

 

“You shouldn’t have decided without asking Kenma,” Bokuto says, and his voice is serious again. It’s the same voice that said _take your medicine, I’m gonna sit you up now, don’t you dare go dying on me, Kuroo Tetsurou, you’re my best patient._ So Kuroo doesn’t mind listening. Kuroo leans his forehead against the window, watches his breath fog up the glass.

 

“I know.”

 

“You can’t go over them in meetings like that, it makes them look -”

 

“I know,” Kuroo says, low. Bokuto was going to say _weak_. He wasn’t going to mean it, but Kuroo couldn’t stand it anyway. “But, alright. What if it had been Akaashi?”

 

Bokuto goes silent and when Kuroo looks over, Bokuto seems to be seriously considering it. He hums against his knees, frowning.

 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto finally says, “prefers deniability. And I prefer Akaashi having things they prefer.”

 

It’s such a perfectly Bokuto answer that Kuroo huffs under his breath. Bokuto looks pleased with himself, which is a pretty default expression for him to be fair.

 

“You’re a cold-hearted son of a bitch. Anybody ever tell you that?”

 

“Keep hearing it a lot around these parts,” Bokuto pouts, but his eyes gleam Joker-bright again. “I prefer ‘proper Southern gentleman’, but I guess y’all don’t get how favours work in Chicago.”

 

“I’m not asking you to help.” He’s not. He owes Bokuto too much; Nekoma always repay their debts, and Bokuto’s racked Kuroo’s count up so high he could bankrupt them, starting with patching him up on the European front and the list keeps going, the list just keeps going, and Kuroo can’t, won’t -

 

Bokuto downs another mouthful of Body’s Blood and raises his eyebrows.

 

“You never are. You know, I always think it was a good fucking job you were unconscious when they dug you out, else you’d have told them you could do it on your own.”

 

“I’m just saying -” Kuroo tries, but Bokuto doesn’t let him finish.

 

“And I’m just saying. I think people knee-deep in shit should shut the fuck up for the man with the shovel, but you know, that’s just a saying we got back in Georgia.”

 

Kuroo says nothing; Bokuto presses the advantage because Bokuto has always known the pressure points to break a man.

 

“Anyway, you’re a good investment.” Bokuto stands up, brushes down his shirt and straightens his cuffs. There’s a light flush on his skin but he’s not in the least bit hesitant as he moves, which is impressive, because Kuroo knows Body’s Blood better than anyone save Kenma and that shit’s strong. “Taketora said Kenma’s been playing that damned Blue Moon music box for the last hour whilst you’ve been sulking in here. I reckon they’ve forgiven you.” Bokuto makes it sound as easy as that. Bokuto always makes it sound easy though, the killer bedside manner of someone who spent too much time around the barely-conscious, talks you into it so you’re halfway through before you even realise.

 

Kuroo lets him get to the door before he opens his mouth.

 

“I can’t pay you back,” he says, voice blurred on the edge of too quiet. “I keep trying and I can’t.” Bokuto freezes; Kuroo can sense him in the dark.

 

“Jesus Christ, Tetsurou,” Bokuto says, sounding exasperated. Something in his voice makes Kuroo think of the day six years ago when Bokuto turned up on Kuroo’s doorstep, with eyes far more steady than anyone’s had any right to be when they walked into the mob.  “You already have,” and lets the door swing shut behind him.

 

*

Kuroo walks out into the corridor and across the landing to the door to Kenma’s apartment. He hovers for a long time, shifting from foot to foot, until Yaku opens the door in his face. Kuroo opens his mouth.

 

“Can it, sir,” Yaku says, not without kindness, “Save it for them.” He takes a look at Kuroo’s face and smirks. “Christ, you both pull those fuckin’ long moon faces whenever this happens. Get in there, I’m gonna find Lev. He’s moping around somewhere too. Apparently his sister’s getting married on them and it’s to a lawyer of all people. Which sister it is though, that’s anyone’s guess. He’s not coherent enough for me to figure that part out yet.”

 

“A lawyer’s always useful,” Kuroo murmurs, hesitating, plucking up the courage. Yaku, if he notices, doesn’t say anything.

 

“Yeah, not when he’s in divorce law. Apparently their Ma’s convinced he’s in it for the dowry.”

 

“She’s a Mafia bride,” Kuroo replies, amused despite himself. Lev’s family sounded like a radio drama half the time, and the other half like a silent picture on the Wages of Sin. “Her dowry probably comes with a body count.”

 

“Sure she’s a Mafia bride,” Yaku says easily, wandering down the corridor. The leather of his shoulder holster gleams in the light. Yaku always walks with this ease to his gait that says _I sleep like a baby despite all the bad, bad things I’ve done_. Kuroo would be half amused about it, how textbook movie gangster it was, if it didn’t make Lev stare. “How do you think he met her in the first place? Anyway, get things cleared and get to bed, sir. It’s nearly dawn.”

 

Kuroo watches Yaku until he rounds the corner. He can almost see the appeal, he decides. These days though, the idea of a whole night’s sleep like Yaku implies makes him envious. Kenma’s a light sleeper, always has been, used to fall asleep waiting for Kuroo to come back home after a night shift - or later, after a night raid. Kuroo would unlock the door and Kenma would sit bolt upright, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and practically hissing in the faint buzz of the guttering electric light.

 

 _It’s just me,_ Kuroo would say, kneeling to unlace his boots and climb into bed. _You’re safe, Kenma, it’s just me._ Kenma always fell back asleep immediately then, out cold before they even hit the pillow and Kuroo -

 

Kuroo opens the door and Kenma turns to watch him let himself in, and it’s not 1916, they’re not children anymore; Kuroo went and got himself buried for ten hours in France. Kenma bought milk soap to wash the blood out from under their nails. Kuroo folded his uniform neat and then drenched it into gasoline and dropped a match, and Kenma stood with him to watch it burn. It’s been years since Kenma bought that pearly-pink powder and tried it on to go meet Kuroo after his shift, been years since Kuroo wiped his hands on his overalls and looked up and said _don’t you touch them like that._ It’s been years since he opened the door to the mob. They are the mob now. They’re the ones knocking down the doors. They’re -

 

Kenma looks at him. They’re curled up on their sofa in a pool of blankets, holding the Blue Moon music box curled in their hands like their hands are a shell and the music box is the soft inside. Kuroo knows it’s the Blue Moon music box even from where he’s stood in the doorway.

 

Ten years ago, Kuroo and Kenma went out dancing; before the mob, before the war, back when they lived hand-to-mouth and mouth-to-hand. They both wore dresses they’d found cheap in a secondhand store; Kenma’s had daisies on it and Kuroo’s was violent red. They were not the best-dressed there, and somehow in the tumble of dresses and laughter Kuroo looked up and Kenma was gone. When Kuroo found them again, Kenma was hunched outside the dance hall, feet bare on the cold steps and their shoes beside them.

 

“I don’t want to go back in,” Kenma whispered. “I don’t. I can’t.”

 

“That’s fine,” Kuroo had said, settling himself down beside them. “You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything.” And they’d listened to the band playing the Blue Moon waltz sat right there, Kenma’s head against Kuroo’s shoulder and Kenma’s arm around Kuroo’s waist.

 

Ten years later, something in Kenma’s eyes cracks and Kuroo thinks of the wedding glass broken under the groom’s feet; thinks of Delilah cutting Samson’s hair, thinks of how all temples fall and all empires crumble.

 

Kuroo sees Kenma, moves without thinking, remembers later his own voice sounding heavy as he said _we don’t have to go through with it, kitten, you just say the word and I can call it all off_ and seeing Kenma’s eyes blown wide with -

 

“No,” Kenma says, voice loud in the quiet. “We’re not gonna run, Kuroo. That’s not how we go. Here’s what we’re going to do,” and shuffles to the corner of the sofa, making room so Kuroo can sit down at their right hand.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The cards each gang uses to sign their work have a deliberate meaning. The Ace of Spades (Karasuno) means power.  
>  The Jack of Diamonds (Nekoma) means patience. The King of Hearts (Aoba Josai) means self-destruction. Similarly, wisteria, the flower Nekoma wears in their buttonholes, means patience, endurance and longevity in flower language. 
> 
> Yes, Kuroo and Daichi are using Morse Code in the meeting scene. They probably picked it up during the war. 
> 
> Blue Moon isn't a real 1920s song, as far as I'm aware.
> 
> Come cry with me about gay cats on [tumblr](ilgaksu.tumblr.com).
> 
>  


End file.
